


Amuse Bouche

by Giddygeek



Category: 21 Jump Street (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 11:08:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2810045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giddygeek/pseuds/Giddygeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Bon appetite, assholes. You dumb motherfuckers are going to culinary school.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amuse Bouche

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katsumeragi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katsumeragi/gifts).



“All right, motherfuckers, gather ‘round,” said a voice in the darkness.

A spotlight flicked on at the back of the long, poorly-lit room. Punks, transients, ne’er-do-wells, and hipsters in boots and skinny jeans drifted out from pockets of deep shadow. Their faces were blank, disaffected; they were too cool for whatever was about to happen, and they wanted the whatever to know it.

The owner of the voice stepped into the light. He dropped a briefcase onto a stainless steel table and centered it just so in front of him. Then he put his hands on his hips, jacket pushed back to reveal his gun in its holster, and said, “Now, what I’ve got is a shiny set of fancy-ass, _ex-pen-sive_ —“

"Balls?” Jenko whispered in Schmidt’s ear, breath ghosting against his skin.

Schmidt twitched and elbowed him, but it was already too late. Dickson glared at them, full force, although who even knew how he’d heard Jenko from up there. The spotlight was set up in the far back corner of the former candle outlet store which housed the new offices of 27 Jump Street.

“That pithy comment came from one of you bullshit motherfuckers, huh? Why is it that I can’t even get through one sentence without you two MENSA rejects disrespecting the power of my office? Let me ask you, for the record, since your words are so important: you dumbass shit-for-brains think that my balls are shiny, fancy, and _ex-pen-sive_?”

Jenko shrugged, looking at Schmidt helplessly.

Schmidt licked his lip, trying to think fast. “Uh, first thing, sir—that was three sentences. That we let you get through? Just there?”

Dickson’s eyes narrowed and he took a step forward. The entire length of the store was still between them, but Schmidt almost tripped over his own feet in his rush to take a matching step back; the only safe distance from the captain was the maximum distance.

Especially when Dickson bared his teeth in a smile like a—oh, just like that one, like a shark and a bulldog had a baby and set it loose in the field of law enforcement.

Schmidt barreled on like a train coming off the tracks. “Second thing, sir—yes, sir. I imagine that your balls are the shiniest, fanciest, and most expensive balls on the force, sir.”

Jenko nodded, wide-eyed and earnest as he tried to hide behind Schmidt. “And the biggest. The absolute biggest goddamn balls. Like, so big, NASA wanted them for Mars rover training exercises, but the terrain was too rugged.”

Schmidt rolled his eyes but went with it. “Yes, that, definitely. The shiniest, fanciest, most expensive, and very, very biggest balls.”

Dickson’s smile cranked wider, and Schmidt wilted with despair, aware of Jenko beside him doing the same. “Why thank you, gentlefuckers,” he said. “What kind words. That was so nice, I think I’ll do you a solid in return.”

He reached down, his hands in black leather, fingerless gloves, and unlocked the case sitting on the shiny stainless steel table in front of him. Then, holding Schmidt and Jenko’s gaze, he threw the top back. Metal glittered against black fabric, throwing up facets of light.

“You two come on up here and meet my knives,” he invited them.

The other undercover agents faded into the background, a wave of blue hair and boyband perfume receding into the gloom. Schmidt looked up at Jenko, who shook his head—no escape—and they went to meet their fate.

Schmidt was pretty sure it was just a new assignment, but he couldn’t rule out something gross. The knives gleamed against the black fabric like surgical equipment.

“Meet the finest German steel in the business,” Dickson said, taking out a short, slender knife and sliding it between his fingers, letting the blade flash in the light like goddamn adamantium, like he was some crazy Wolverine guy or something. “We’ve got a couple grand worth of these nice, durable, sharp-as-fuck tools for slicing, dicing, and mincing up a motherfucker…or a carrot, I guess, if you’re a pussy. Put your hands down on the table.”

Schmidt didn’t want to put his hands down on the table.

Dickson raised an eyebrow.

Schmidt put his hands down on the table. Jenko did the same. The steel was cold and Schmidt’s palms were sweaty enough that there was an instant halo of condensation outlining each finger. He could only hope that whatever the captain’s plans were, his own fucking palm-sweat wouldn’t be the reason Schmidt lost a hand.

Dickson eyed them, then grabbed an onion out of nowhere—Schmidt would swear he manifested it from thin air—and in what seemed like less than a second, he sliced it into what Schmidt could only refer to as smithereens.

“Turn ‘em over,” Dickson ordered. Schmidt glanced at Jenko, whose eyes were getting red, but they reluctantly obeyed their captain. He scraped flecks of onion off the cutting board and into their cupped palms. “Go on now. Eat that nice little snack I made you.”

Oh, gross. Schmidt tried not to make a face, but couldn’t help it. His mouth twisted up and he grimaced as he licked the perfectly even, translucent chunks off his hand. Beside him, Jenko shuddered like raw onion was toxic to jocks. Tears streamed down his face; his misery left Schmidt glad he wore contacts.

“Bon appetite, assholes,” Dickson said smugly. He closed the knife case, snapping it shut with a click that echoed through the candle outlet, and pushed it towards them with a smile. “You dumb motherfuckers are going to culinary school.”

*

The culinary school was in a nice building downtown—a renovated warehouse, lots of metal and brick and exposed wood. Trendy. There were little dining areas for the customers who paid to eat the advanced students’ cooking on the weekends, with granite or metal-topped tables, and burlap-wrapped Mason jars with candles in them. There was a chalkboard with specials in swirly writing. There was a taxidermy kitten at the hostess station.

And, separated from the dining areas by only a change in flooring from hardwood to white tile, was the student kitchen.

“Welcome to _Le Cordon Vingt-Sept_ ,” the head chef said. She stood on a black plastic mat that covered a wide area in the center of the room, surrounded by a bunch of wooden tables on wheels, covered in cooking tools and stacks of crisp towels. She wore her snowy white jacket and tall white hat like someone who didn’t think she looked like an asshole in them.

Schmidt had to admire that, since he knew he looked like an asshole in his.

Red embroidered letters on the chest identified her as Chef Hardy. Chef Lilian Hardy, Schmidt’s briefing folder had informed him. The deputy chief’s sister, and the unhappy recipient of no fewer than three death threats (and 94 mixed reviews) on popular review website Gulp.

Jenko had argued that death threats online were as trendy as burlap-wrapped Mason jars with candles in them, but Dickson hadn’t listened. He’d handed them the folders with their cover stories—Smith and Jason, childhood BFFs in search of a new hobby—and sent them on their way with a snarled, “I _said,_ bon appetite, motherfuckers; do you not know French? That means _get out_.”

Chef Hardy looked like her brother, if her brother had shaved his beard and had a massive ponytail of curls hanging over his shoulder. Her curls were red-brown and shiny, her eyes were large and blue, and she was stacked, in the broad-framed lady-version of her brother’s beefy build, which looked a lot better on her than on the deputy chief.

Jenko leaned down to whisper in his ear, “I’m not going to be able to look at the deputy chief again without thinking about this hottie in his gene pool,” and Schmidt elbowed him—did they need to get in more trouble for whispering at the back of the class?—but had to agree. Major distraction.

However, she was speaking in some kind of mixed French-German accent that was totally goofy and cost her at least three hotness points.

“Tonight, you will begin a culinary journey!” she said— _doonaht, vou, vill, joornay_ —and Schmidt opened his eyes real wide to make it look like he was taking her seriously and not making fun of her in his head. “You will learn to slice, to dice, to create! You will leave my school as master chefs,” a twinkling smile, “or you will not leave at all. Ready to begin? All right. We learn the fine art of _mise-en-place_.”

Her assistant, a tall, skinny lady with a raw-boned, red face, silently directed them to their tables. Schmidt had Jenko on his left, and an eager-beaver old lady on his right. She bounced with every move, a big pouf of frosted blonde hair tucked under her hat, bright but red-rimmed eyes behind her granny glasses. Across from him, a tall man with tattoos spun a knife and looked at Schmidt with the cold, dead eyes of a shark.

“Oh, I’m so excited,” the eager-beaver twittered, her hands fluttering around her station. “I’ve taken her pastry classes before, you know. Chef Hardy is just the right teacher. Pretty, and so affordable!”

“Uh, yeah,” Schmidt said. He cast a glance at Jenko, who was staring at the tattooed guy. The dissatisfied customer went by the username C_U_N_CLASS, so presumably he—or she—was one of the other students, but that guy didn’t look like he knew how to turn on a computer, let alone type out death threats on a review site. “Jason and I have heard really good things about Chef Hardy, haven’t we, buddy?”

Jenko side-eyed him, then went back to staring at Tattoos, who had picked up on his attention by now and was ostentatiously picking his nails with his knife, turning the blade so it glittered in the light. Schmidt rolled his eyes. Tattoos didn’t know that they’d recently been knife-menaced by a menacing master, so his attempt at intimidation looked weak in comparison.

Eager-Beaver clasped her hands together. “Oh, is this your first class? Just you wait, honey, you’ll pick up the tricks in no time. Why, it took me only an hour or two to feel like I had learned it all.” She leaned over, looking up at Jenko over her glasses. “Of course, you pay for much more than two hours,” she said, frowning for a moment before her face relaxed again. “But really, this will be worth every penny. Exciting things will happen. Just you wait and see.”

She’s totally a murderer, Schmidt thought, and turned to tell Jenko to leave Tattoos alone. But Jenko had already looked away, down at the food stuff that Chef Hardy’s assistant had come by and dropped on his table. He was frowning. He poked at his tray—big bones, some brown goop, some other brown goop—and looked at Schmidt. “I thought we were supposed to be learning to cook with _food,_ not doing some dumpster-diving bullshit.”

Chef Hardy picked that moment to glide between them, running her hand along Jenko’s shoulder as she tutted, “ _Non, non, non_ , Jason— _mon Dieu_ , you are a tender lambchop, _c’est vrai!_ You see, we start with the basics, the foundation; the broth, the stock, the roux. It will be a week or more before we cook the meal.”

Jenko frowned at his tray of stuff. “Do I get to use my knives?”

“ _Oui_ ,” Chef Hardy murmured, squeezing Jenko’s bicep like a stress ball. “Good knife skills are absolutely _de rigeur_ for progress! And I am eager, so very eager! to see you at your work. You have very fast hands, _n’est-ce pas_?”

“I guess so,” Jenko said, and after one last admiring squeeze, Chef Hardy moved on, her assistant looming behind her, on the lookout for any little task she could perform for the chef. Jenko leaned over to Schmidt. “Although I don’t understand half of what she just said to me, so, who knows. Did I just agree to eat espadrilles or something?”

His face was so serious. Schmidt had been having this problem lately where Jenko’s serious face made him get all weird, like he was a minute away from being Chef Hardy, squeezing Jenko’s dumb massive arm. He squashed the feeling down under a layer of Peter Pan costumes and being abandoned for drinking games, and said. “Escargot, and no. You don’t have to eat any weird food yet. You do get to use your knives.”

“Cool,” Jenko said. “Why couldn’t she just say so?” and, reassured, he went back to staring at Tattoos.

Schmidt sighed. He poked at his own tray of bones. He was a dumbass. And what _was_ that brown stuff, anyway?

Eager-Beaver leaned over and patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry, dear. This is a very good bonding experience. We’ll all be so close by the time class ends!” She smiled at him. Under her granny glasses, her eyes were bigtime bloodshot. She cooed, “Oh yes, once we get going, the blood will run hot—wait and see, wait and see.”

Chef Hardy stepped back into the center of the tables and clapped her hands together. “Good, we are assembled. My friends, take a minute to look around and absorb the moment, the greatest moment of transition in your lives; you go from cooks now, to trained professionals, to _chefs_. Take out your favorite knife, and we will start with some chop-chop-chop!”

Jenko turned to him, blank-faced, and Schmidt sighed. Did no one do research anymore? He leaned over to Jenko’s station, picked up his chef’s knife and said, “This one, this one is your favorite.” Jenko gave him a grateful look and Eager-Beaver cooed again. 

“So sweet,” she said, when Schmidt looked at her. She was beaming at Jenko. Schmidt gritted his teeth in a smile, picked up his own chef’s knife, and got ready for the greatest moment of transition in his life, or something. 

* 

Chopping was sweaty work. Stoves were sweaty work. Wearing a chef’s coat was sweaty work. At the midpoint break in their three-hour class, Schmidt left Jenko listening intently to Chef Hardy as she explained the mysteries of a perfect dice. He staggered into the alley behind the building to bask in the cold air and try not to die.

Four people were already in the alley, clustered around a trashcan, smoking. Schmidt recognized them all from class and took the opportunity to look them over more closely. None of them struck him particularly as a cyber-threatening motherfucker, but you never knew, he supposed. 

There was an old, old guy who practically creaked with every movement, although he’d held his own in the kitchen. A tiny girl who looked fresh out of high school puffed and wheezed—not unhealthily, just like she’d never smoked before. A guy who looked like a sweaty banker took short, angry drags off his cigarette, the tip burning bright. 

And then there was Tattoos, who smoked with flair, one hand under his elbow, the cigarette dangling from his long and tattooed fingers. 

“You smoke?” Tattoos asked him, raising an eyebrow. Schmidt thought back to the cigarettes and weed he’d _tried_ to smoke, and winced. 

“Nah, nah,” he said, trying to be cool. Like, literally and metaphorically; what did they make the coats out of, pure wool with lead lining? “Asthma, you know how it is, am I right?” And, hearing himself, he winced. Tattoos smiled anyway, friendly and polite. Besides the tattoos, nothing about him seemed terribly suspicious to Schmidt; what was Jenko’s problem with the guy?

Tattoos took a puff on his cigarette and blew the smoke out through pursed lips. He had really high cheekbones and, when he turned his head so the smoke wouldn’t blow in the banker’s face, Schmidt noticed that his curly, dark hair, freed from his hat, was tied up in a bun. 

Tattoos said, “So what are you doing out here with us losers? You just like to hang with the bad boys?” 

“Haha, yeah,” Schmidt said. “That’s me, always trying to hang with the wrong crowd!” Fucking hell—sometimes he wished that he was mute. 

The angry banker took one long last drag off his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs with a pained expression on his face. He tossed the butt in the trash can and released the smoke in a slow exhale, like a constipated dragon. “If there ever was a wrong crowd, this is it,” he said, and offered his hand. “Billy. Lila’s—Chef Hardy’s—ex-boyfriend. Before you ask, I’m not stalking her.” 

How had he known what Schmidt was about to ask?

“I paid for the class before we broke up, and I’m not losing out on that fee, no matter how many over-roasted bones she throws me.” 

Fair enough, but Schmidt was totally looking Billy up later. He seemed more like the type to revenge-ruin Chef Hardy’s credit than leave her death threats on Gulp, but clingy ex-boyfriends were extraordinarily likely to have a brush with the law. 

Billy introduced the tiny girl, who was watching Schmidt with bright, steady eyes. “This here is Annie, who teaches third grade but hates kids, and that’s Jim hobbling back to the door. Jim’s mean, and he’s gonna outlive us all outta spite.” 

“You know it,” Jim said with a sweet smile, and he disappeared—slowly—back into the school. 

“I’m single,” Tattoos said. He raised an eyebrow and gave Schmidt a slow once-over. “And ready to mingle. What’s _your_ name?” 

Schmidt, who had been about to say, automatically, “Hi Single!” stumbled to a halt over the words. “Oh, hi,” he said instead. Was he being cruised? Did cruising still happen? Didn’t all the gay guys just use Grindr? What did he say in response? 

“He’s taken,” Jenko said from the open doorway, face and voice impassive. It was decidedly not true; Schmidt had been broken up with three times in two years, and had decided to take a little break. But Jenko and Tattoos were staring at each other, ignoring him, and Annie patted his arm. 

“Sometimes the horns just gotta lock,” she said, sympathetic. 

“Okay?” Schmidt said, mystified. 

Then Tattoos said, “Sorry, Prime Beef, I didn’t realize you were into rump roast.” He flicked his cigarette in the trash can and stalked gracefully past Jenko, who stared at him and didn’t move until the last possible moment before they would have collided. 

“Hold on, were we still talking about mingling, or did we move on to mignon?” Schmidt asked Annie, and Jenko finally looked at him, blinked, and sighed. 

“You’re hopeless,” he said, coming out into the alley. Annie smiled at him and slipped through the door, letting it shut gently behind her. Jenko dropped a heavy, warm arm—couldn’t he tell that Schmidt was already overheated?—over Schmidt’s shoulders and squeezed him for a moment, then dragged him back inside. 

* 

“I think the Eager-Beaver is behind the threats,” Schmidt whispered as they walked back into the classroom kitchen space. The hallway was long and narrow, and Jenko hadn’t taken his arm back, so they were bumping against each other the whole way. Schmidt slapped at Jenko irritably, trying to get some space, but he supposed that for scheming, close proximity worked better than shouting at each other over their shoulders. 

“The Eager-Beaver? Do you mean Marnie? The lady next to you?” Jenko glanced down at him, eyebrows raised. “Gross, man. She’s old enough to be your mom, leave her beaver alone, it's probably tired. _And_ she’s totally cool. She offered me weed. Well, weed and some pills, but they were totally normal pills.” 

Schmidt dragged his heels, forcing Jenko to a stop. They turned to face each other, and Schmidt whispered furiously, “You _realize_ that we’re specifically supposed to _arrest_ people who offer us weed and pills, right?” 

“What, right now? Right now, we’re specifically supposed to arrest a stalker,” Jenko protested, looking guilty. 

Schmidt paused as Chef Hardy’s assistant hustled down the hall, her head down, going back toward the store room. He and Jenko squeezed together on one side of the hall to let her pass. When she was out of earshot, Schmidt stepped back and poked Jenko in the chest, which was a lot like poking granite, except more likely to poke back. “We can arrest more than one person at a time! We are trained professionals! We can multi-task!” 

Jenko frowned. “Yo, as much as I love _The Sixth Element—_ ” 

They squished together and waited for the assistant to go by again, glaring at them for still being in her way. This time she was carrying a basket with what appeared to be whole fish. They still had their heads on, their dead black eyes swearing vengeance. Schmidt swore off fish forever. 

“It’s not multi-pass, _multi-task_ —and _The Fifth Element_ not _The Sixth Sense_ \--okay, you know what, forget that,” he said, because Jenko visibly did not care. “Call whatever you want whatever you want. But the fact is, Marnie the Eager-Beaver gives me a bad feeling, man. Just promise me you’ll help me keep an eye on her and don’t, like, take anything she offers you, all right? Okay?” 

“Uh….” 

Schmidt slumped against the wall. “Oh my God, are you drug-cursed? Is there like, an evil drug fairy that follows you around and sprinkles this shit in your drinks? How do we stop her, do you need to go to rehab, you think?” 

He opened his eyes to see Jenko looking at him, as hopeful as a puppy, clearly _not_ thinking about how to undo the drug fairy’s curse. Jenko took a step closer, even though no one was heading to or from the store room. He braced one arm against the wall by Schmidt’s head; great, whatever he’d taken, he was already feeling it and needed help holding himself up.

Schmidt hoped it wasn’t a horse tranquilizer or something—the last thing he wanted to do again was haul Jenko around in a fireman’s carry. He’d put his back out for three weeks last time. 

“So, when we get out of here for the night,” Jenko said, still hopeful, and Schmidt tilted his head back, wondering what crazy shit his high-as-balls partner wanted this time; blue M&Ms and honey-flavored frozen yogurt, or pizza and a side of tacos, or a mermaid costume complete with long, silky tail— 

Annie poked her head around the corner. She chirped, “Hey guys, we’re waiting on you! Oh sorry, take your time, you’re adorable, we’ll keep waiting!” and disappeared again. 

“Do you have to be insane to want to be a chef?” Schmidt asked. He poked Jenko in the chest, or, all right, maybe this time it was less a poke and more a full-handed prod. Who could blame him for this odd fascination with the warm, hard texture of Jenko’s sculpted pecs? 

Jenko hesitated, then dropped his arm and straightened up. “It’s not what I want,” he said. 

“No, you want to shoot guns and put handcuffs on bad guys,” Schmidt said. He straightened his jacket and hat, and headed back into the kitchen. 

“Well, that’s not _all_ I want,” Jenko said, and followed him. 

* 

“Fuck yeah, onion, who’s crying now?”

Jenko had clearly reached the fuck-yeah-motherfucker stage of whatever high he was on. Schmidt worried about the number of knives that were accessible, but Jenko still had his motor skills; onions were falling apart at the flash of the blade, and perfect little bits of carrot sprinkled down like confetti. 

“Are you sure you don’t want some, dear?” asked Marnie the Eager-Beaver. She smiled gently and diced a mountain of potatoes like they’d done her wrong. She didn’t even bother to look down at what she was cutting. She was terrifying, and Schmidt didn’t know why Jenko had decided to trust her. 

“Someone’s got to be sober enough to get him home,” he said. He looked down at his own piles of onion, carrot, and potato. Maybe he could stick them in the food processor? Chef Hardy wasn’t supposed to know that her brother was worried about her and had sent in undercovers, but how was he supposed to do well enough to pass her little tests of skill when he couldn’t stop watching Jenko? 

He had to keep an eye on Chef Hardy herself, and Billy-the-ex, and Eager-Beaver Marnie, and Tattoos—because Jenko wasn’t _always_ wrong. Fuck, if he’d wanted to run this whole case himself, he’d have taken one of Jump Street’s useless hipster youths. Schmidt diced a carrot quickly, taking his frustration out on the knife, the vegetable, the cutting board, his hand. 

His hand. 

“Oh bullshit motherfuckingfucker,” he yelped, dropping the knife and holding his hand up. It was just a little slice but it had caught the ball of his thumb and was already starting to bleed. Chef Hardy took one look at the cut, frowned at his tiny pile of sliced veggies, and shook her head sadly. 

“Gloves, they will only slow you down even more, and yet you must submit to the laws of safety and health,” she said, every other word accented in French and or German; was it supposed to be German, or was she just that bad at French? She waved her hand, and the silent assistant, who was now glaring constantly, dropped a pile of latex gloves on the table. 

Jenko hovered behind him. “Yo, that’s not so bad,” he said, reassuring, patting Schmidt on the shoulder. “Man, the way you yelled, I thought you cut your whole hand off!” The patting turned into a squeeze on the back of the neck. “By the way, don’t cut your whole hand off. Don’t cut anything off. Don’t—do you need a Band-Aid? I bet they have like, seven. Twenty. A whole box!” 

Marnie appeared with Band-Aids while Schmidt was watching the blood well up, vaguely queasy, more from surprise than anything else. She tsk-tsked in a motherly way, taking his hand in hers. She dabbed at the cut with alcohol, completely ignoring his yelps of distress; the cut didn’t hurt, but _that_ did. 

“Here, take these,” Annie said, appearing with two round white pills in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. 

Jenko let her shake them out into his hand, then hesitated. “These are just like, Tylenol or whatever, right?” 

Annie frowned at him. “Dude, I teach little kids,” she said sternly. “I’m a DARE graduate. I say things like, ‘Don’t do drugs,’ as like, a reflex.” 

Reassured, Jenko tossed the pills back, and downed them with half the bottle of water. 

“Good boy,” Marnie murmured approvingly. “Poor thing, you’ll feel better soon.” 

As crazy as Marnie seemed, it was kind of nice to be mothered. Schmidt drank the rest of the water, suffered the wound-cleansing and bandaging, and put on the glove. Jenko flipped his cutting board for him. 

“Thanks, buddy,” he said to Jenko, patting at him awkwardly with his gloved hand. He must have lost more blood than he realized; the world seemed a little distorted around the edges, like he was looking out through a funhouse mirror. 

Jenko smiled at him and his mouth seemed stretched out, even more full and pink than usual. He wobbled in and out of hugging range, and Schmidt reached out a hand to keep Jenko steady, but missed his arm, even though he could see it being all muscular under his white chef’s coat, and, wait.

“Annie,” Schmidt said, turning to her and waving an accusatory finger. “You! You’re a lying liar! Who lies! That was _not_ Tylenol, you sneaky fucker!” 

Annie smiled perkily. “Oh sorry," she said, faux-apologetic. "Wrong pills. Dang, how embarrassing, and after that whole DARE speech too.” 

The world was tilting sideways. Everything red got bigger and bigger, and everything blue began to recede into the distance.“What _is_ this shit?” 

Annie shrugged. “I don’t know. Ask Marnie. She gave them to me.” 

Schmidt wheeled around, hands flailing. “What the _fuck?"_  

Marnie smiled at him. It was a clown’s smile, too wide, too white, too red. “Consider it a favor!” She leaned in and he saw with horror that her mouth just kept coming, bigger and bigger, until it took up her entire face. She used her face-mouth to kiss him on the cheek, and he tried not to scream as she whispered in his ear, “I _told_ you that you’ll feel better soon.” 

* 

After the funhouse mirrors came the world of fascinating textures. 

“Your head is just like, so fuzzy, man,” Schmidt said, running his hand over the back of Jenko’s head. He felt dazed, overcome by the degree of fuzz that Jenko was sporting. It was crazy. It was like his every little hair was on a tiny spring, and all the tiny springs pushed all the little hairs right into Schmidt’s palm. 

Jenko had his eyes closed and his head tilted down. He was swaying on his feet. “You like fuzzy?” 

“I like it,” Schmidt said agreeably. “I like it. Hey, you got any more?” 

Jenko looked up through his long, dark lashes. He had a really good mouth, Schmidt thought, staring at it as Jenko’s lips curved. Really good. What was the texture like there?

“Yeah, I got more. I got a _lot_ more,” Jenko said. “I’ll show you. You wanna go home with me after class?” 

Schmidt didn’t want to go anywhere. He was at class. Chef class. He loved chef class; it was the warmest place in the world, and Jenko was so fuzzy. Culinary school was awesome, and everyone at chef class was awesome, and Schmidt was awesome and Jenko was awesome and Jenko was also really gropeable, had he done that on purpose, how did you be gropeable on purpose? 

Everyone at chef class was awesome, and also high. Marnie had been busy, offering their classmates her little pills like candy. “All the best chefs are drug-addled monsters,” she trilled cheerfully as she shook bottles out into sweaty palms. “It really enhances the experience!” 

Schmidt wasn’t the only one who had passed through the funhouse and come out the other side. Old Jim was spread against the door, arms out like a starfish, his palms and one cheek pressed against the glass. He was humming something that, thanks to the kids at Jump Street, Schmidt vaguely recognized as new rap. Annie was sitting on the floor in a pile of corn meal, sifting it through her fingers and drawing in a puddle of vegetable oil. Billy had gone off into a corner with Chef Hardy, who was wrapped around him, humping a little. Marnie tickled her own fingertips with some leafy green herb. The assistant who hadn’t yet said a word was— 

Whoa. Well, there was Tattoos. 

Schmidt prodded at the long hands on his hips. Tattoos snugged up behind him, trapping Schmidt in a sandwich of tall dudes, which felt a little weird and a lot not bad. Hey, he _had_ been getting cruised! That was nice, that was flattering; actually, Tattoos was kind of hot; actually, didn’t Tattoos have a name? Everyone had a name, except for him and the silent assistant, and even they probably had names, right? 

He turned his head to look at Tattoos over his shoulder and said, “Hey, what’s your name?” but Tattoos was distracted. 

“I like ‘em plump,” he said in Schmidt’s ear, settling even closer. “You know what I mean? A little meat on the bones. A nice rump to pump.” 

Schmidt frowned at him. He tried to decide if he was more offended or interested in touching the curls sticking out from under Tattoo’s chef’s hat, and then Tattoos squealed, looking startled; to be fair, he probably was startled, because Jenko had slapped him. 

“What the fuck, man,” Tattoos said, stepping back, a hand to his reddening cheek. “What the fuck is wrong with you, you jealous motherfucker?” 

Jealous? 

Schmidt looked at his partner in surprise, and yeah, the narrowed eyes and tight mouth looked pretty unhappy; the muscle jumping in his jaw looked pretty unhappy; even the way his ears stretched out from his head—wait was that a skewed perception because of the drugs—no, that was real, even the way his ears stretched out from his head looked unhappy. 

Jenko had been jealous of Schmidt’s cool friends before, but never of anyone hitting on him. Except hardly anyone ever hit on him. Except the people who had hit on him had mostly been girls, at least so far as Schmidt had noticed. 

Tattoos was taunting Jenko. “How was I supposed to know you were the only one who got to stuff the body cavity, huh? Taste the tenderloin? Fuck you, man! If you like it then you shoulda put a truss on it!” 

Jenko’s face went from hard and twitching mad to bright fucking red. He didn’t look away from Tattoos, but when he said, quietly, “Duck,” Schmidt knew that was for him. He put his arms over his head and ducked, and Jenko went at Tattoos for the title of slap-fighting chef class champion. 

Schmidt’s table was the first casualty, knocked over in an instant, all his butter and seasonings and herbs scattering across the floor. Annie looked up, interested, then added his butter to her oil and flour sculpture on the floor. 

Tattoos reached overhead for the pots hanging from hooks in the ceiling, hoping to get a weapon and the advantage. Jenko knocked everything he touched out of his hand, ruthless and efficient, a hard-handed Terminator who just kept coming. 

Schmidt jumped around them, trying to find an opening to separate them. Jenko wasn’t about to leave him one. Frustrated, Schmidt yelled, “Are you _slap-fighting_ for my virtue?” 

Jenko, slapping like a machine, said, “Well I wasn’t going to _punch_ him, it’s not the _Middle Ages_.”

Schmidt was going to make the point that no one’s virtue was worth slap-fighting over, but he stopped for a moment and considered that. 

Well, he didn’t consider his virtue so much as he considered his partner, a little sweaty, a little grimy, his face hard and set as he slapped some sleazebag for getting in Schmidt’s personal space, and—huh. All right. Okay. 

“Uh, okay, thanks,” he said, stepping back. Jenko tossed him a quick, surprised look, and he shrugged. “Yeah man, have at it. Looks fun, have a good time.” 

Jenko tilted his head, studying Schmidt’s face for a moment while Tattoos scrambled for a weapon. Schmidt smiled at him, and Jenko fucking beamed back, his entire face soft and open with delight. “You’re a perfect human, don’t let anyone tell you different,” he said, and slapped Tattoos again. 

* 

Chef Hardy finally noticed the action when Tattoos threw himself dramatically at her feet, fake-crying. She unwrapped herself from Billy, who looked dazed, and looked down at lanky Tattoos, writhing in overdramatic agony on the messy, oily, well-seasoned floor. 

“He’s ready to deep fry,” Schmidt said helpfully. “I could put him in the basket if you wanted. No? You sure?” 

“ _Quelle horreur_!” Chef Hardy said, taking in the scale of the mess they’d made; Jim still plastered to the door, Annie sculpting, Jenko covered in sweat and breathing heavy as a bull, her assistant wringing her hat until it was as limp as her hair. 

The chef strode into the center of the chaos, her hat still high and white, but tilted jauntily to the left. “Someone explain to me the meaning of this!” she shouted, turning to gesture at them all. Her accent slipped out of Random European and into American; Schmidt, who was still high, could practically see it go. 

Marnie, the only person still at her tidy station, sobbed wildly. She held one of her perfectly white towels to her face like a handkerchief. “Oh Chef Hardy, it’s all my fault! After our _last_ class went so well, I just wanted to have the same _experience_ with _this_ class! How was I to know that so many of them were just too dumb for drugs?” 

“Our last class went so well?” Hey, the silent assistant had finally spoken, and just in time, too. Schmidt had almost forgotten her in all the chaos. 

Oh wait, Schmidt thought, wobbling to his feet. The silent assistant had broken her silence, and also pulled a flambé torch out of a drawer. She advanced, ranting, towards the still-sobbing Marnie. 

“Our last class went _so well?_ Our last class was a nightmare, and this one is too! Every class at this school is just awful, and no one learns anything, and everyone thinks they deserve to open their own restaurants! And I’ve left review after review, but they just keep _signing up_.” She lit the torch, and Jenko, catching Schmidt’s eye, mouthed _what the fuck?_  

 _The fuck!_ Schmidt mouthed back, and edged closer to Marnie as Jenko crouched behind tables and looked for a better position.

“I want to cook,” the formerly-silent assistant said, making wild gestures, using fire like punctuation. “I want to cook beautiful things, well-plated, delicious things for people who appreciate fine cuisine. That’s all! But you people are pigs. Drug pigs. You just drink and drink and smoke and pop pills and pretend that you love food! Despicable!” 

“Ah, Veronique,” Chef Hardy said, stepping forward. “Put down the torch, Veronique. You haven’t taken the class where I tell you how to use it!” 

Her assistant turned on her, a look of disgust on her face. “My name is Veronica, Chef. And I seem to have figured out how fire works. Would you like a demonstration of my skills?” 

The torch roared in her hand as Veronique—Veronica—charged her mentor. Chef Hardy shrieked and tried to run, but tripped over Tattoos, still prostrate on the dirty floor. She went down on top of him in a tangle of limbs, and only the fact that they skidded a few feet sideways saved them from becoming flambé. 

Veronica roared with frustration and raised the torch over her head like a sword of fiery vengeance. Everyone froze for a moment, entranced by the flames, and Veronica laughed triumphantly, shouting, “Fear my sear!” as she began to lower the torch towards her victims. 

Then Jenko leapt out from behind Annie’s work table, and tackled Veronica to the ground. 

That would have worked out okay, because the flambé torch got knocked out of Veronica’s hand and turned off as they fell. On the way down, however, they flailed into a guest table at the edge of the kitchen, and it jittered with the impact. 

The burlap-wrapped Mason jar with a candle in it fell off the table. Schmidt watched, open-mouthed, as the little candle rolled into the tail end of Annie’s cooking oil puddle on the floor, its tiny flame flickering courageously. 

The cooking oil promptly ignited. 

A line of flames grew in swirls and curlicues; Annie had gotten creative. She was smart enough to scramble to her feet and get out of the way, leaping nimbly in the opposite direction. “Aww, that was a good sculpture,” she said with regret when the flames ate her flour-and-oil creation. “Marnie, can I have more drugs? They’re for my art.” 

Marnie, standing horrified and still behind her table, reached for her pill bottle with a shaking hand.

Schmidt frowned at her, but as Annie walked through a fire-less path towards them, he followed her with his gaze, realized that she must have started her artwork over by the gas stoves. The fire was spiraling right towards them.

“Noooooo,” Schmidt yelled, grabbing Annie and Marnie and leaping toward the door almost before his mind made the connection from fire to _big fire_. It felt like he was running in slow motion, time stopped as he tried to save people from the inferno about to engulf them all, the sound of his own voice distorted in his ear. 

Jenko, still wrestling with Veronica, was out of his reach, and hadn’t seemed to notice the flickering flames. 

“Jenkooooo!” Schmidt roared, his voice deep and slow; fuck their covers, they had to get _out. “_ The gas! It’s gonna blooooow!” 

Jenko looked up, and for a heart-stopping moment, they made eye contact. It felt like an hour went by, an hour in which they did fucking nothing but talk about their feelings. Schmidt sailed toward the door with Annie and Marnie, Tattoos and Chef Hardy and Billy and Jim flying around him in silent cacophony, the fire behind them roaring as it hit the stoves. 

“I looooove yooooooou,” Schmidt said, as he ran out the door, saving his civilians’ lives. He staggered onto the sidewalk, turning just in time to see Jenko’s eyes widen, then narrow, as time snapped back into focus. 

Jenko looked down at the snarling woman trying to groin-kick him, then shrugged and punched her on the jaw. She went limp and Jenko leapt to his feet, dragging her behind him. He charged the door, face grim, eyes locked on Schmidt’s, and he reached the safety of the street just as the roaring fire hit the stoves. 

They all stood by the bus stop, panting. Passers-by gave them a wide, wary berth. Schmidt stared at Jenko, and Jenko, with his hands full of limp, crazy cook, stared back. 

From inside the warehouse, something went _plink_.

The sprinklers went on. 

The fire went out. 

Schmidt and Jenko, alone together in the chaos, didn’t even notice. 

* 

Billy said, “Uh, I’ll call the fire department, I guess?” and took out a cellphone as big as Jenko’s head, wandering away as he dialed 9-1-1. 

Veronica groaned, then began to weakly flail around, muttering, “I’ll kill you, I’ll chop you all to little bits!” Schmidt blinked back to reality and licked his lips, watching Jenko watch him. 

“Jenko, you should probably—" 

“Yeah, yeah,” Jenko said, nodding. He turned away, looked at Schmidt over his shoulder, then knelt down and snuck his handcuffs out from under his jacket, beginning to read Veronica her Miranda rights. His recitation was smooth and flawless. Schmidt, standing behind him, looking at his butt, felt really, really…proud. 

And then he felt pain, as Chef Hardy stalked over and kicked him in the shin. 

“Hey!” he yelped, jumping on his other foot and glaring at her. “We just saved your life! What the shit!” 

“Jenko!” she yelled back at him. “That’s what you called him! I know that name! I bet I know your name too— _Schmidt.”_

“Uh, did we arrest someone you love?” Schmidt asked her, trying to look innocent and sensible. “Because if so, I’m sorry, but the eyes of Justice—" 

“My husband complains about you almost every day! Every day, for years!” Chef Hardy took off her hat and began to hit Schmidt over the head with it. The hat was mostly soft, it didn’t hurt or anything, but Schmidt winced and flailed around as he tried to bat it away. 

Jenko, done with Veronica, stood up and scratched his head, confused. “Your husband?” 

Chef Hardy pointed to the name stitched on her jacket and raised her eyebrows. 

Schmidt was starting to get a bad feeling about this. “Uh, is your husband Deputy Chief Hardy?” He exchanged a grossed-out glance with Jenko; really though, she looked _just like_ the deputy chief, they couldn’t be banging—could they? 

They could. 

“Is he ever!” Chef Hardy yelled, and she walloped Schmidt again with the hat. “I told him I’d stop seeing Billy, I told him—but did he listen? No, he sent his most annoying officers here to _spy_ on me!” 

Schmidt tried to wrestle the hat out of her hands. “He told us you were his sister! We were here to protect you from threats from some Gulp reviewer! C_U_N_CLASS! I swear! I promise!” 

“I knew Veronica was behind it,” Chef Hardy said grimly, no trace of French at all. “But until he sent you assholes here to spy on me, she was completely harmless! Best assistant I ever had! Oh boy, is my husband ever in trouble—I mean, is he _ever_ in trouble _now_!” 

She stomped toward Billy, who was sitting on the warehouse stoop, smoking grimly. She grabbed his hand and dragged him off, ignoring the swarms of fire trucks and ambulances beginning to arrive, until a blue and white got in her way, at which point she hailed it like a taxi and said, “Bring me to Deputy Chief Hardy! DO IT,” and disappeared. 

“Uh, I don’t think we’re going to be invited to the deputy chief’s anniversary party this year,” Schmidt said.

Jenko was busy handing Veronica over to a bemused patrolman. “She’s been read her Miranda Rights,” he said proudly, and stood with his hands on his hips, smiling, as he watched the patrolman take her away. 

“So,” Tattoos said, sidling up to Schmidt. “You like it _al dente_ , am I right?” He waggled his eyebrows. He had a red mark on his face from the slap fight, but, Schmidt had to admit, he was the hottest piece who’d cruised him in a really long time, and— 

“Sorry, buddy,” Jenko said, stepping closer and sliding an arm around Schmidt’s waist, hot and startling, and, whoa, sending a rush through Schmidt’s entire body. The hair prickled on the back of his neck. He almost drooled. What had Marnie _given_ them? “Like I said,” Jenko said, his breath on Schmidt’s ear enough to send his whole body into some kind of goosebumping spasm. “This one’s taken.” 

Tattoos eyed them both. “Eh,” he said, shrugging. “Well, beef three ways isn’t usually on my menu, but if you’re interested, call me up sometime.” He leaned forward with a wink. “I deliver.” 

“Uh,” Schmidt said, watching him go. Tattoos peeled off his white jacket as he sauntered away, revealing a dark green t-shirt underneath, covered in sweat stains. He had even more tattoos on his arms than on his neck and hands. “Did you even catch his name? Like, let alone his number, I mean, because for all the talk, I got nothin’.” 

“You don’t need his number, rump roast,” Jenko said, but his voice was a little uncertain, half-serious, ready to make it a joke. Schmidt stood still for a second, blinking, taking in the unharmed warehouse, frowning Annie, bloodshot Marnie, and hot-ass Tattoos, walking away. 

And Schmidt smiled.

"I am not your rump roast!” he complained while he pushed and shoved at Jenko enough to turn around, but he didn’t fight his way out of Jenko’s hold. He leaned into it instead, and Jenko went soft-eyed and smiley, the uncertain look in his eyes replaced by something sweeter, something Schmidt recognized. 

“Kiss the cook, kiss the cook!” someone started chanting behind them; a middle-aged lady someone; _Marnie_. Jim and Annie picked it up, a surprisingly cheerful chorus. “Kiss the cook!” 

“Neither one of us cooks,” Schmidt said to them over his shoulder, but then looked back up at Jenko, and kissed him. 

*

Epilogue 

*

“Now, it’s only through some of Deputy Chief Hardy’s bullshit that the two of you are still partners,” Dickson said, sliding files at them across his desk. Boxes were stacked from floor to ceiling everywhere in his office except for a two-foot radius around the desk. Jump Street was moving again. 

Schmidt didn’t even want to _touch_ the file. Dickson was way too happy. It couldn’t be good. 

“If it were up to me, I’d separate you so fast. _So fast._ ” The captain glared at them. “I can’t trust you to worry more about a case than about protecting each other’s delicate little feefees _as it is_ , and now you’re rubbing those feefees together? Shit, man. What the fuck.”

“I’m sure we have Chef Hardy to thank for it,” Schmidt said. “I mean, she probably doesn’t want the deputy chief to separate us; that would be too nice for him. And just for the record, my feefees are substantial.” 

Jenko nodded in earnest agreement. “They are. It’s true.” 

Dickson rolled his eyes at them and flipped the folders open. “I’m just saying, try not to hump each other too much on your next assignment—you don’t need to be giving any of the dogs ideas right after they got their bits snip-snipped, that’s just fucking cruel.” 

Schmidt and Jenko looked at each other. _Dogs?_ Schmidt mouthed, and Jenko shrugged, bemused, mouthing back, _snip-snipped?_  

Dickson was practically rubbing his hands together with glee, which was terrifying and not right. “That’s _right_ ,” he said smugly. “Adjust your motherfucking collars, because you bitches are going to vet school.” 

Jenko melted. “I _love_ dogs!” 

“I’m _allergic_ ,” Schmidt said at the same time, and they turned to each other, horrified, while Dickson laughed and laughed.


End file.
